


A Wood-Worker's Requiem

by chappysmom



Series: Wood Work [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, And to honor his best friend, Gen, Poor John needs some purpose, Post-Reichenbach, Still woodworking, What can he possibly make for him?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chappysmom/pseuds/chappysmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's fall, John turns to his hobby for solace, working on the perfect memorial for his lost friend--even if he'd never be there to use it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I own nothing here but my own ideas. Everything else belongs to ACD and the BBC—I just like to play here. This has not been beta’d or Brit-picked, so as always, all mistakes are my own.

It wasn’t something John had ever planned to do—or been interested in, really.

He’d been happy building furniture and carving little wooden knickknacks. He had enjoyed the challenge of expanding into things for spinning (he still blamed Mrs. Hudson and Sally Donovan for that). It had been a pleasure, this last year, to feel the skill in his hands again. To relearn the accomplishment of making things. It didn’t compare to the enormous satisfaction of saving a life as a surgeon (or as the mad bloke who chased criminals with Sherlock Holmes), but still … it was satisfying.

Working wood gave him a way to relax when he was still wired on adrenalin after a long day. It gave him something to do with his hands other than throttling his frustrating flatmate. It gave him a place to channel the creativity he’d almost forgotten he had.

More than that, it gave him a way to remember.

Working with wood always made him think of his father—the man who had taught him how to wield a chisel. He remembered the long, peaceful hours in his Dad’s workshop, the patient way his father had guided him without ever making him feel pressured. It had taken him years (and a war) (and life with Sherlock Holmes) to get past the grief, the loss he’d felt when his father died. It had been so encompassing, he had practically run for medical school, far from the work they had both loved, and had not picked up a chisel or wood-working tool of any kind until a year ago, when Mrs. Hudson’s shelf had broken.

It had been in repairing that, that he had rediscovered this part of himself and—more importantly—found that link to his father again. Now, years from the grief of losing him, years in which thinking of him had grown less painful, John had found a way to feel close to him again, spending his spare time doing the work they had both loved.

It had been a complete surprise to him that Sherlock was actually supportive of this endeavor. As long as his hobby didn’t interfere with Sherlock’s Work, the man had been remarkably forbearing about John disappearing for hours into his workshop in 221C. He had joined him sometimes, to pace or rock in a chair on the sawdust-covered floor, never minding the noise, or that John’s attention had been split between him and whatever piece he was working on.

It had meant a lot.

Everything had meant a lot.

But now John stood in his studio, panting, looking at the shards, pieces, splinters that had been a beautiful hand-crafted desk not ten minutes ago. He weighed the hammer in his hand and let his eyes pass over the other broken pieces scattered about the room. Why bother with any of it, anymore? What did it matter?

He had turned his back on his hobby once before, when his father, his mentor had died. 

What was he supposed to do now, when his best friend, his flatmate … _Sherlock_ … was dead?

Was he supposed to sit here and happily churn out tables and chairs and spindles while Sherlock rotted in the ground? What right did he have to do anything, to be anything at all, when for the second time in his life, he had failed to save the person he cared most about?

Over the years, he had saved countless people—soldiers, crime victims, patients at the surgery. But the two who mattered the most? He had failed them.

What was the point?

He hadn’t meant to destroy anything when he came down here. He hadn’t even planned to come. He had only come back to 221 long enough to pack a bag. He couldn’t bear the memories. Not yet, at least. Before leaving, though, he couldn’t resist taking one more look—if only to remind himself of which customers he needed to contact to tell them their orders would be delayed.

Or, well, more than delayed. He had taken one look at the cozy, wood-scented room where he had spent so many pleasant hours and something had snapped.

Really, all those crime scenes … he had obviously paid more attention on how to truly wreak havoc on a defenseless room than he’d realized. Months of work, destroyed.

He could feel tears running down his cheeks, though he didn’t feel like he was crying. He was far too empty for that. He could barely feel the rage that he knew was burning under his heart—rage that Sherlock could do this to him, that he’d been _this_ selfish. (Because, there was no question that Sherlock had been a selfish man, but to deliberately cause John pain of this magnitude? He wouldn’t have thought him capable.)

Still gasping for breath, John sank down to the floor, hammer dropping as his hands came up to cover his face. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t … he couldn’t. The workshop was no longer a sanctuary. It was just another place that John had tried to carve for himself but instead was a symbol of failure. Failure to save his father. Failure to save Sherlock.

After a time, he pulled himself back to his feet and, without looking back, turned and limped away.

 

#

 

The next few months were … bad. About the best that could be said for them was that they were mostly a blur. 

John supposed it was something that he had not succumbed to the family addiction of alcohol. Or the soldier’s escape of suicide when everything you’d seen, everything you’d done all got to be too much. No, John just … existed. He didn’t leave his dismal bedsit any more than he had to. (Not even to earn rent money, which somehow kept being paid. He could only assume it was Mycroft—a thought which would have infuriated him if he had had the energy.)

After three months of staring blankly at the empty wall in the featureless bedsit, John finally woke up enough to realize that this was a Bit Not Good. Maybe nobody believed him when he said Sherlock was absolutely not, not ever, a fraud, but maybe it was time to start thinking about doing … something.

Besides, he was getting tired of being stalked by smooth black sedans every time he went out for food. Tired of faux-cheerful calls from Mrs. Hudson (who he knew missed Sherlock, too). Really, he was just tired, but he knew nothing would change that unless he actually did something.

Surprisingly, the real kick he needed didn’t come from a friend—or not really. It was an unexpected visit from Sally Donovan.

He hadn’t spoken to her since that last night. The night when she’d stood in their flat and spouted bitter words about Sherlock Holmes, all but thumbing her nose with sheer, stupid, hatefulness. All the cases they had worked together, all the time John had spent with her talking about their hobbies—none of it had mattered that night when she come not only to arrest Sherlock, but to stomp gleefully on the remains of his reputation.

So, when she showed up at his door three months after Sherlock’s funeral, it was unexpected to say the least. “What are you doing here?”

He saw her eyes widen in concern as she looked at him, and then grow even bigger as she glanced past his shoulder at the featureless room. “I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”

John took a deep breath. At least she was asking this time. He held open the door and stumped back to his chair. He wasn’t offering tea. He wasn’t being hospitable. If she had something to say, she could say it, but that was it. He wasn’t going to pretend that he was happy about any of this.

Hesitantly, Sally sat on the edge of the couch, concern informing every line of her body as she watched him. The silence stretched out for a long moment and then she said, “I’ve got two things I need to tell you, John.”

“I hope one of them’s an apology.”

She swallowed. “Well, in fact, yes. The first thing … and, I want you to know I asked to be the one to tell you. Greg wanted to, but he’s still on probation—though that’s likely to change now. And I know we haven’t been friends …” 

John snorted. That statement was probably the funniest thing he’d heard in months. No, he and Sally Donovan were certainly not friends. “What do you want, Sally?” he asked again.

She cleared her throat. “Right. We found his phone … Sherlock’s. He recorded what happened up there on the roof and … I don’t know if you want to listen to it, but…”

“It proves he’s innocent, doesn’t it?” John said flatly. “He outsmarted you again.”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath and he could see the effort it took to keep her face neutral. “Do you want to hear it? It’s … hard.”

John just nodded. Did she really think that would matter? Did she really think hearing Sherlock’s voice would be harder than _not_ hearing it every long, endless hour? She gave him another long look and then gave a brisk nod and pulled out a recorder from her purse. “It’s a little muffled at times. We think he had it in his pocket.”

Another nod. “Just play it.”

 

#

 

Several minutes later, John sat with his head in his hands, tears streaming down his face. He’d been wrong. Listening to that recording had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Harder than trying to smile at his father’s wasted body when he’d visit him in hospital. Harder than seeing Sherlock jump.

Or, no, he hadn’t jumped. For all intents and purposes, he’d been _pushed_.

Pushed to save John. John and the others. Sherlock had sacrificed himself and knowing that … John had no idea if it made any of this better or worse. 

He lifted his head and tried not to glare at Sally. “Not exactly the act of a psychopath, was it?”

Her eyes were bright as she shook her head. “No, John. It wasn’t. You were right about him and we were wrong. _I_ was wrong. I should have believed him. I’m truly sorry.”

He stared at the open remorse in her face and just dropped his head again. He didn’t know how to deal with any of this.

He heard some rustling and then footsteps as she moved into the kitchen, but John didn’t pay attention. He was too busy trying to absorb this new information. Knowing how Moriarty had manipulated Sherlock explained so much of that final phone call, why he had lied. But it also tore his heart right out of his chest, thinking how hard Sherlock had tried to save all of them. How close he had come.

And, again, John had been useless. Worse than useless. He’d been a liability. No wonder he’d been lured away by that fake emergency call. 

Footsteps again, and then there was a cup of tea in his hands. “Drink that,” Sally told him. “It’s good for shock.” And then to his relief, she leaned back on the couch and just sat, sipping from her own cup.

After a few minutes, John said, “So, his name will be cleared?”

A nod. “We’re releasing the recording tomorrow. It seems the least we can do.”

John made a noise, just this side of a snort. 

“I really am sorry, John.”

There were so many possible responses to that. Throwing her out. Yelling. Bursting into tears. But John just sipped his tea, hands cupped around the warmth of the porcelain. All he said in a quiet voice was, “You should be.”

He glanced up at her, noting the play of emotions on her face as she considered trying to justify herself. (He could see the pride in her face, the need to always be right.) But she just looked at him and forced it down with a nod and another swallow of tea. “When’s the last time you ate? Or slept?”

He shrugged. It really didn’t matter. He wasn’t starving himself, not really. He just wasn’t interested in eating, much like Sherlock on a case—except, rather than needing to focus because he had too much to think about like Sherlock had, John couldn’t be fussed to deal with the vast emptiness that had become his life.

He expected her to protest, to urge him to eat or rest or move on or whatever platitudes she would choose. He’d never seen Sally exhibit any real signs of empathy, but she knew the motions, knew how to deal with distraught people at a crime scene. (Not that John was distraught, oh no, but his entire life did very much have the feel of a crime scene. It was murder, pure and simple.)

He sat and waited, knowing she had something else she needed to say and they she would go and he could sit and absorb this new, world-shaking information.

When she did finally speak, it wasn’t what he had expected.

“What are you doing here, John?”

He lifted his head to look at her, surprised to see compassion in her eyes. “What?”

“I mean, I know … I might not understand how you could be friends with … Sherlock … but I know that you were. And obviously, he felt the same.”

“Because he jumped off a building for me?” John almost winced at the bitterness. “Yes, Sally, we were friends. What’s your point?”

“So then … why are you _here_?” She looked around the dismal, sterile, depressing flat. 

“221B is too … painful,” John said wearily. “I can’t go back, not yet.”

“You blame yourself somehow, don’t you?”

He felt like he’d been punched. Even Ella hadn’t shown that much insight. “Obviously I’m right, yeah? If it weren’t for me, Sherlock wouldn’t have needed to jump.”

“It wasn’t just for you.” Her voice was sharp, laced with vinegar. “But even so—he made his own decision. I’m not saying he had many options, and I’ll never forgive myself for my part in forcing him to that, but … it’s not your fault. You more than anyone, John … you believed in him. So why punish yourself?”

John almost wanted to laugh. A life lesson in guilt and forgiveness from Sally Donovan of all people?

Her voice was soft when she continued. “You told me once that you’d had to rebuild your life more than once—when your father died, when you got shot and had to leave the army. How is this different?”

Now he did chuckle, though it was barely recognizable. “A person can only rebuild so many times, Sally, before the foundation is shot.”

“I thought you didn’t give up? Didn’t fold when the cards were bad?”

“What?”

“When you taught me how to spin. You told me that everybody gets dealt lousy hands by life, but that you weren’t the kind of man who folded at the first bad hand. You said … you _said_ you can’t give up on the game.”

John just shook his head. “That’s different, Sally….”

“No, no it’s not.” She was leaning forward now, as if by narrowing the space between them, her words would hit with more force. “I’m not denying this is hard, John. It is. It’s awful. It’s unfair and terrible and I’m sorry it happened to you. But you’re honestly one of the most decent men I know and for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve practically been the embodiment of ‘don’t give up.’ So you can’t start now.”

John just stared. “To not give up, you need something to work for, Sally. I’ve got nothing left. Hell, if I hadn’t meant Sherlock when I did, I probably wouldn’t have lasted the week, I was so depressed.”

He could see her shock at that, but she didn’t let it faze her. “So _find_ something. What about the blog?”

“What’s the point? The only thing that made it worth reading were the cases, and there won’t be any more of those.”

“Why not? Make yourself the next Consulting Detective—you’re a smart man, you lived with … Sherlock … for months. You must have picked up something.” He started to shake his head. “Or turn some of those case studies into real stories. Make the Sherlock you knew really live. Show how good he really was.”

“I’m not a writer, Sally,” John said. “The blog was just an exercise my therapist insisted on after Afghanistan. It was only Sherlock that made it work, and me? Trying to turn our cases into real stories? You vastly overestimate my talents.”

Now she gave a sharp laugh. “Again, you’re the one who told me, John—you do what you have to do.”

“I’m not the man I was when I told you that,” John told her wearily, putting the half-empty mug down on the table and then leaned back, rubbing his forehead. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but…”

“How about the wood-working, then? You know that you love that, John. Your entire face lit when you’d talk about it, how it reminded you of your Dad, how you liked working with your hands.”

“Right, my dad. He taught me to build things and then he died. Sherlock encouraged me and got me making things again, and now he’s dead. You encouraged me to make spindles, Sally—you’d best watch out. It’s obviously not safe being too close to me.”

“Don’t you dare say that, John Watson!” He opened his eyes to see her standing right in front of him, _looming_ in front of him. “I know you’re hurt, I know you’re grieving, but don’t you _dare_ give up! Sherlock loved the fact that you made things. Did you never notice the way he watched you? Didn’t he help at that craft show? He even took up spinning, for heaven’s sake, because he thought you’d enjoy it.”

“No, Sally. He suffered me doing that. He put up with it. He helped at the craft show because it was for a case. And the spinning? It was just something new to learn.”

“You’re wrong. You were his best friend—probably the only person who really understood him, because God knows none of the rest of us could stand being near him long enough. But even I could tell that he tried to be a good friend to you, and he certainly proved _that_ three months ago at Barts.” John winced, but she carried on. “He would have hated you giving up like this.”

“I haven’t given up, Sally, not really.” John was just so tired. “I just haven’t found anything to _do_. The press still follows me half the time when I go out—and that’s going to get bad again as soon as that recording is released. I can’t face … I can’t face Greg and Mrs. Hudson, especially now. I just … I need …”

“You need something to do to honor his memory.”

He felt something loosen, just slightly, in his chest. “Yes.”

Sally crouched down in front of him. “Then just think … with the skills you have, what could you make that Sherlock would have appreciated? There must be something. He didn’t chase criminals all the time, did he? Find something you could make for _him_ and then, when it’s done, maybe you can find a way to move forward for your own life again.”

He just stared at his hands, trapped in his thoughts, lost again as he thought of Sherlock at his microscope, Sherlock pacing the room as he wielded his spindle—a means of aiding thought that thankfully didn’t make as much noise as … 

John drew in a sharp breath and blinked, looking up at Sally and seeing a hint of a smile in her eyes as she watched him. “Yes,” she breathed. “That … whatever that was. Do _that_.” 

She patted his hand as she stood. “Right. I’m going to make you a sandwich and then I’ll be on my way.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ve got some thinking to do,” John told her, ushering her toward the door. “Thanks, though, for … the recording.”

She studied his face a moment and then nodded. “Let’s just say it reminded me of how important friends are. You sure about the sandwich?”

“I’m sure, but … thanks for coming.” John closed the door behind her and then went back to the couch, thought of a sandwich already forgotten. He had so many things to think about, but most importantly, in at least one way, he had his friend back. Sherlock might still be dead, but Greg’s old hope that he might become a great man? 

Sherlock had exceeded all expectations.

And he would never forgive John if he let this gift—Sherlock’s unfathomably generous act of supreme faith that John’s life was somehow worth more than his own—go to waste.

Sally was right about one thing. He needed to make something. Since boyhood, it had been his preferred way of working out problems and he had allowed it to be taken from him when he lost his Dad. He wouldn’t let that happen again, but he needed to do more than just start building furniture or turning spindles again.

He needed to make something Sherlock would have appreciated.

Something Sherlock would have loved.

Really, there was only one possible choice, and it was perfect. It would challenge John’s skills to the utmost and force him to think of … well, other things for a while. An engrossing project would be just what he needed, and he would be able to picture Sherlock’s pleasure in it—the chance to watch John learning something new for a change, something Sherlock himself had loved.

John would make him a violin.

#


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, I know absolutely nothing about making violins except what I’ve learned online in web searches the last couple of days. I have no idea if I’ve got the complexity level correct here or not, and apologize in advance for any gratuitous errors.

Before John could start on Sherlock’s violin, of course, he had a lot to do.

First … he was going to have to go back to Baker Street. He was going to need his workshop and, well, he’d left Mrs. Hudson alone long enough. He still didn’t think he could bear to go up to 221B, though, but he could put a cot in 221C for the time being. (He found for the first time that he was grateful to Mycroft for keeping up the rent for the Baker Street flat.)

Then, he was going to need to research. Other than a basic wooden pipe when he was ten, he’d never even considered making a musical instrument before—certainly nothing as exacting as a violin. All he knew was that it required meticulous work and that everything had to be perfect to get the right sound when all was said and done. (And, really, an instrument with faulty sound … what was the point?) 

He might be crazy, trying to build a violin that could compare with a Stradivarius, but maybe that was just what he needed?

He’d have to do some research, first. He didn’t even know how to name all the parts of a violin, much less how to construct one. What kind of wood would he need? Any specialized tools? How did you attach the strings to the neck? (Was it even called a neck? Fingerboard?) 

He barely slept that night. Well, he had barely slept for three months, continually woken by nightmares when he did sleep and tossing and turning when he could not. 

But that night? The night he decided to make a violin? His mind was just too busy making plans.

It was good to actually feel excited about something.

Because, odd though it was, the thought of this did excite him. He would never have dared tackle it before—Sherlock would have made the process excruciating. He would have wanted to be involved in every step, experimenting with types of woods and wax and …

No. John stopped himself. Think of it as a surprise, not a joint effort. It’s a memorial, a gift. If he were a painter, he would have painted a portrait of Sherlock with his violin. If he could sculpt, it would have been a statue. But he worked with wood, and the best thing he could think of to honor his friend would be a violin, lovingly crafted in memory of the many hours Sherlock had spent with his cherished instrument.

So, tomorrow, he thought as he stared at the moonlit ceiling, he would go to Baker Street. He would apologize to Mrs. Hudson for abandoning her. He knew she understood, but he knew that she was hurting, too. They were the only people who truly missed Sherlock and it was time they be together again. Besides, she was getting older and with her hip … he’d worry less if he was there. He couldn’t afford to lose anybody else.

Then he would clean up 221C. He had left it a mess. (More than a mess, filled as it was with shattered splinters all too reminiscent of his life.) It was just one of the things he needed to clean up. 

Next, he would research. He wondered if there were any luthiers in London who could help him figure out where to begin? There had to be. Sherlock would have known, but, well, asking him wasn’t an option at this point. He would have to muddle through on his own.

He rolled over again and punched at his pillow. He just needed to get some sleep. He used to be able to sleep, he told himself, it used to be easy, remember? Well, not for years, to be honest., though living with Sherlock had miraculously eased the nightmares from Afghanistan. Sherlock had eased a lot of things. People just hadn’t understood. Of course he had been impatient and arrogant and demanding. He’d had no patience for people less brilliant than himself (which was everybody), but that hadn’t meant he hadn’t cared. He had expressed his concern for John in countless ways, and right now, John would have sold his soul to hear Sherlock playing him a lullaby on his violin.

With a flurry of covers, he sat up. Fine. Sleep obviously wasn’t going to happen. He’d go in the kitchen and make some tea and maybe have a bite to eat, and then he would start making plans—real plans—about what he was going to do. He was going to have to throw himself into violin-making like Sherlock had with … well, everything. Total immersion. And with any luck, by the end of it, Sherlock’s ghost would be eased and maybe John could get through an hour or two a day without this aching sense of loss echoing in his gut.

#

“Oh, John, I’m so glad! I’ve missed you so much—both of you.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I just … couldn’t.”

“Of course, I understand, dear. Don’t worry about it.” She poured him some more tea and passed the plate of scones his way. “I’ve done some dusting upstairs, but haven’t touched anything.”

John’s mouth went dry. “Oh, no. I … I still can’t quite face it up there yet. I thought I’d kip in 221C for the time being.”

Her face looked blank. “But …”

“I know, it seems crazy, but for now, just being back at Baker Street at all is hard enough for me. I’ll get up there eventually.”

She still looked perplexed, but she just smiled. “Of course you will. Do you have work to do in the shop?”

“Not really the kind of work you’re thinking,” John said sipping at her perfect tea. “I’m still unemployed, I’m afraid. I haven’t been able … I just haven’t been working. If you’re worried about the rent…”

“Oh no, dear,” she said quickly. “Sherlock’s brother has been taking care of that. He said it was what Sherlock would have wanted.”

John made a face at the thought of Mycroft ever doing anything Sherlock wanted, but he nodded. “It was in his will, apparently. Sherlock apparently had a trust fund and one of the stipulations was to pay you for 221B for as long as you needed. But that doesn’t cover 221C and I…”

“Don’t even say it, John Watson,” she told him firmly. “You’re family and I’ve never been able to rent it to anyone as it is. You can have it as long as you need. I’ll let you cover the utilities so neither of us is out of pocket, but that will be all I’ll accept, young man.”

He felt his face crease into the first real smile since … he couldn’t even remember. “Yes, ma’am,” he finally said. “So long as you let me help you a bit around the place. Speaking of … have you heard anything from Scotland Yard today?”

Her eyes immediately moistened. “The recording, you mean? Yes, Inspector Lestrade brought it over last night. Oh, John…”

“I know,” he said, blinking his own eyes. “He did it for us.”

She nodded, sniffling. “That dear, dear boy. I can’t even be angry at him now, for putting us through this, knowing that…”

“It was Moriarty’s fault,” John finished for her. “I know.” 

They sat in companionable silence for a time, drinking tea and eating Mrs. Hudson’s superb scones (which tasted better than anything John could remember in months). After a while, John said, “I was thinking of making something. For him. I mean, something to remember him … not that I need something to make me remember him, but…”

She smiled at his babbling and reached across the table to put her hand on his. “What are you making him, John?”

He took a steadying breath. What if she thought it was ridiculous? “A violin.”

To his relief, her entire face lit up. “Oh, John. That’s perfect. Have you ever made one before?”

“Never even thought about it,” he said. “I just … it seemed like something he would … well, not appreciate necessarily, not when he had a Strad. But the thought. Sentimental though it is, I like to think he would have appreciated the thought.”

“He would,” she told him, voice firm. “There’s no question. I think it’s a wonderful idea. That’s why you’re back?”

“That, and you,” John said. “It’s about time I returned to the things I love, don’t you think?”

“More than time,” she said, eyes shining again.

 

#

 

The next few weeks were hard, though at least they were a different hard. 

Even without climbing the stairs, living at 221 Baker Street was difficult. John never walked through the door without expecting to see Sherlock come hurrying down the stairs, shouting about a case.

Mrs. Hudson helped, though, if only by way of her obvious joy and relief to have him living there again. The two of them were survivors of the Sherlock Holmes War—the only two people to have truly understood how good a man he had been.

Then there was the press. With the release of the recording from the roof, the entire story—which had only just begun to fade away—exploded back to the front pages, reviving interest in all things Sherlock. Which, in retrospect, made it a bad time to have moved back to Baker Street, John thought. By returning the same day as the story broke, some of the press took it to mean that he had doubted, that he had only come back because Sherlock’s innocence had been proved.

After all this time, John knew better than to try to respond to the reporters camped on the pavement in front of 221. He did, though, write his first blog post in months. He briefly expressed his relief that Sherlock’s good name had finally been cleared. He wrote that he had never doubted him for a moment, that he missed him, and thanked everyone for their support through this difficult time.

Not that he felt he had received much support—though he grudgingly acknowledged Mycroft’s financial aid. Still, with the blog post up, he could ignore the press, even if some were annoyingly persistent.

It took him less time than he would have expected to clear out 221C. He braved the ghosts in his old flat long enough to dash up to his old room to retrieve his old bedroll, and spread it on an old army cot Mrs. Hudson dug out from somewhere. It wasn’t luxurious, but it would do. He had a kitchen for making tea and, well, the taste of sawdust had never bothered him.

By the end of the week, 221C was fit and ready for service. His tools were laid out, the shards of former pieces were gone, and all decks were cleared for action. He couldn’t help the military terminology marchinb through his head. All this felt very much like a mission—a rescue mission—and the only way he was able to deal was to think in clear, black-and-white terms as much as possible. Even the slightest hint of sentiment would incapacitate him.

 

#

 

He found the name of a luthier not too far from Baker Street and on a sunny Friday morning, entered the shop. 

“Hello? May I help you?” The man behind the counter was 50-ish with faded blond hair and a welcoming smile, as he carefully laid down the viola in his hands.

“Yes, I hope so,” John said. “I … it’s a bit unusual, I know, but I need, er, want to make a violin and was hoping you could tell me where I should start?”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “That is unusual, yes. May I ask why?”

“You might say it’s a form of therapy. My best friend was a masterful violinist and he recently died. I was thinking that … making a violin for him might … help. I do realize,” he hurried on, “That you’re not in the business of teaching someone how to do your job, and I’m not asking … I mean, I know you have a living to make. I just need to know where to _start_.”

He was babbling again, and now the man was looking at him like he was an idiot, which you’d think he’d be used to, but really not, and why had he come in here in the first place, it was such an obvious mistake, there was no way he could do this andreallyheshould. Just. Leave.

He was already starting to shift his weight to pivot to the door when the man said, “It sounds like you’ve got a lot of questions, and it’s time for my break, anyway. Why don’t you come back here and tell me what you need over a cup of tea?”

John blinked. “That’s really quite nice of you, but it’s not necessary.”

“Nonsense,” said the man, lifting part of his counter so John could join him in the back. “It sounds like there’s a story here, and my mother always said I couldn’t resist. My name’s Peter, by the way. Peter Jeffries.”

“John Watson,” he said as he walked through the cluttered shop, breathing in the familiar scent of wood and wax. 

He thought he might have seen a flicker of recognition on Peter’s face, but it was gone quickly as the man filled the tea kettle and switched it on. “I gather you’ve never made a violin before, but … any instruments?”

“No instruments, unless you count a pipe when I was a boy. I do make furniture, though, and the occasional spinning wheel or spindle.”

“Fascinating,” Peter breathed. “Not many people make spinning wheels anymore. Do you have a workshop? Could I see it?”

John blinked, unused to being the focus of such avid attention. (Well, other than Sherlock’s.) “I do,” he said, “On Baker Street, but there’s not much to see at the moment. I haven’t done anything in the last few months. Haven’t wanted to, frankly. Until I thought of this.”

“A violin for a dead friend.”

“I know, it sounds crazy, but…”

Peter was shaking his head. “No, it doesn’t. It sounds appropriate. I’m sure your friend would have been honored.”

John shrugged and accepted the cup of tea Peter handed him. “I’m not entirely sure of that—I mean, he owned a Stradivarius. Anything I can make will be miserable in comparison, but … that’s not the point, is it?”

“A Strad?” Peter’s eyes were wide. “That’s … remarkable. There aren’t many of those around. Does he … who has it now?”

“It’s in the flat, I think, unless his brother took it … I haven’t been back since … well. It’s been three months.”

Peter looked on the verge of hyperventilation. “You do know that—especially if it’s not being played—that there are ways a good violin should be stored, right?”

John actually felt amused. “You’re dying to see it, aren’t you?”

Peter looked like he was trying to refrain from dashing out the door. “I can’t say I wouldn’t be interested. I had a client who had one, once, and would love the chance to examine another. Your friend … was he a professional violinist?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing like that, though he was quite good. It was one of the few things he was passionate about—even if he did like to play in the middle of the night when I was trying to sleep. He said it helped him think.”

“The middle of the …? Oh. So, when you say a friend, you mean…”

“I mean a _friend_. We shared a flat and he was my best mate, but that was all.” John stopped abruptly and stood up. “Look, this was a mistake. Thanks for the tea.”

“No, wait. I’m sorry,” Peter said, stretching out a hand. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Please, let me help.”

John stared at him for a moment, and then sat back down, carefully stretching out his stiff leg. “I’m sorry, too. I overreacted. I just got so tired of everybody and their sister thinking we were a couple. He was my best friend and he saved my life. I just want to … do something for him, something he would have liked. I don’t expect my violin to compare to his Strad, but … he would have appreciated the effort. Or at least, I think he would.” 

He looked over at the other man, thinking. Maybe an interested violin aficionado was just the buffer he needed for his first foray back into 221B. “I haven’t been back in the flat since the funeral. I honestly don’t know if it’s even there, but if you want to come on the off-chance his brother left a priceless violin sitting where he left it, you’re welcome to come.”

“What? Now?” Peter was practically on the edge of his chair. 

John took a deep breath. “Yes. Why not?”

 

#

 

John paused on the landing, fumbling for the right key. Except for a couple forays for supplies, he hadn’t been in 221B since just after Sherlock died. He could still remember how oppressive the silence had been as he had sat there alone. It had been one of the worst nights of his life.

He glanced back at Peter with an apologetic smile and was surprised at the expression on the man’s face. Not just eager about the rare violin, but … something else.

John turned abruptly to face him, jaw set “What is it?”

“What?” Peter sounded surprised. “Can’t you find the key?”

“That’s not the question,” John said. “The question is what do you want?”

“To see the Stradivarius?” The man’s voice was tentative, confused.

“No, there’s something else.” John might not have been a Consulting Detective, but he’d picked up a few things. “You’re eager about more than just the violin. Why?”

For a moment, Peter looked insulted at being called out, but then he said, “All right. I recognized your name, and when you mentioned the Strad … I knew your friend was Sherlock. But, honestly,” he hurried on as John felt his face tightening with heat, “I knew Sherlock, too. Where do you think he came for strings and rosin when he needed them?”

John was breathing hard, fighting down a sincere urge to toss the man out. “Is that why you offered to help?” he finally asked. “So you could get the inside scoop on Sherlock Holmes? See the flat? Maybe sell your story to the papers?”

He was almost relieved to see the look of horror on the other man’s face. “No! I am honestly concerned about his violin. I admit to being a little curious, too, because I knew him and there have been all those articles in the tabloids, and, I mean, I am human. I can’t help being curious, but honestly, John. I’m not here for anything nefarious, I promise. I just want to do what I can to help—not only that priceless violin, but my old friend. Well, maybe not quite a friend, but we did discuss music from time to time when he’d come to the shop. An acquaintance, but one I promise you I knew. And because he’d want me to help.”

John could feel the skepticism etching lines into his face. “You think so? Really? Sherlock didn’t take help from anyone.”

“He would for you,” Peter said, voice confident. “Do you know that he actually bought a rubber for his violin after you moved in? You know, the muffler used by beginners while they’re learning and are dreadful? He told me his new flatmate had nightmares, and he didn’t want to disturb his sleep. I don’t know how often he used it since you say he played in the middle of the night, but he did buy one. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

John just looked at him, weighing his words, his posture, his expression. He’d had to deal with so many thrill-seeking, gossip-hunting, obnoxious idiots in the last three months. He certainly wasn’t about to let one into 221B. It was almost sacred ground to him, and he wouldn’t profane it by letting just anybody in. Still, the man’s face looked sincere, and the story rang true. 

“John? Is that you, John?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice came up the stairwell. He was just shouting back to reassure her when she came around the corner. “Oh, good. I’m not used to hearing noise from up here anymore, and … Peter? Is that you?”

“Mrs. Hudson, it’s good to see you again. How’s the hip?”

“Holding its own, dear, thank you for asking. Are you here to help John with his violin, then?”

John felt like he was at a tennis match, but watching the two of them banter reassured him that Peter was telling the truth since Mrs. Hudson clearly knew and liked him. “I brought him up to see Sherlock’s violin, Mrs. Hudson, if that’s all right?”

She laughed. “It’s your flat, John. You don’t need my permission.”

“No, but I thought you would know if it was in there, or if Mycroft took it?”

She looked thoughtful. “No, it was there last I checked. I don’t remember him taking a thing except some clothes. It’s like he wants the flat to be left like a museum. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t felt comfortable moving things. I did make sure the violin was in its case and out of the sun, though. I know it’s quite valuable.”

“Right then,” said John as he pushed the door open for the first real visit in months.

 

#


	3. Chapter 3

It was hours later, and John had apologized profusely for keeping Peter from his shop for so long, only to have them brushed off. “Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t have traded this afternoon for anything. I got to play a Stradivarius, was treated to some of the best scones I’ve had in recent memory, and met a new craftsman who somehow thinks he needs my help.”

John smiled. “I do need your help. Even if there is a _Violin-Making for Dummies_ book, it can only take me so far.”

“Well, thank you for showing me your workshop. Your spinning wheels are impressive. Do you spin yourself?”

“Just a little, just what I had to learn to test the wheels.”

“Does that mean you’ll be learning to play the violin then, too?”

John paused. “I hadn’t actually thought about it. But yeah, I suppose I might.” 

He showed the man out the door and then stood irresolute in the hallway, looking up the stairs. He’d made it once, after all, and it hadn’t been so bad. Peter’s enthusiasm for the violin had eased the emotional turmoil and his camaraderie with Mrs. Hudson had been soothing for John’s jangled nerves. 

John shouldn’t have been surprised. Mrs. Hudson knew everyone, he thought as he hesitantly climbed back up the stairs. He stood in the middle of the room and looked around, swamped with memories. It was unnaturally quiet. When Sherlock had been out of the flat, it had always felt like a peaceful respite, not like it was _empty_.

Not like now.

John turned a slow circle, paying attention now to the familiar furniture and fittings, the bullet holes in the wall, the skull on the mantle. It was as if he had never left, but for the slightly stale smell to the air. 

He slowly stepped over to the violin, wary. He almost felt as if he were doing something wrong, that Mum was going to yell at him for touching. Sherlock had been so possessive, so protective of his violin. John wasn’t sure he had touched it more than twice in the eighteen months they’d lived together. 

Opening the case, his fingers cautiously brushed the edge, feeling the silken smoothness of the wood as he wondered at his audacity at thinking he could make something this beautiful, that Sherlock would ever approve of it.

“I do hope you aren’t planning on selling Sherlock’s violin, John.”

John jumped. How did that man move so silently? He hadn’t even made the ancient stairs creak! “Jesus, Mycroft, don’t scare me like that. My nerves aren’t what they used to be.”

Mycroft just gave him that slow blink he used instead of a smile. “Not feeling well, John?”

Oh, now he was just trying to make John upset. Except for a brief visit to explain Sherlock’s bequest for 221B’s rent, they hadn’t spoken since the night before Sherlock’s death, and John was happy to leave it like that. “Not particularly. You?”

“As well as can be expected,” Mycroft said coolly. “I see you’ve left your old bedsit, John—a wise decision, I must say. The place was beyond dismal, even worse than the one you were in when we met. Does this mean you’re moving back in?”

“221- _C_ ,” John told him briefly.

Mycroft sniffed. “Well, it’s a step in the right direction, I suppose, if you’re not picky about mould.”

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

“I just wondered what you wanted with my brother’s violin. It seems suspicious that you would bring a luthier here to examine it, and I am endeavoring to understand why.”

John was confused. “How could I sell it, Mycroft? Even if I wanted to, it’s not mine.”

“Oh, did I neglect to mention? Yes, it is,” and now Mycroft actually did smile, even if it was a smarmy, self-satisfied smirk.

“I … what?”

“You are his chief beneficiary, John. Did I forget to tell you? So yes, you could, if you choose, sell the Stradivarius, the science equipment, even his suits to a consignment shop. I’m sure they’d get you a pretty penny—not that you need it, of course. His trust fund was quite generous, and more than enough to cover your needs.”

John could only stare. “I’m sorry. You’re saying that Sherlock left me his things? In his will?”

“That is the customary method,” Mycroft said smoothly, “Though knowing my brother, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had found another way.”

“And I’m just finding this out now, why?” John felt asea, adrift once again in a flood of confused emotion. Sherlock had remembered him in his will? The mere fact that Sherlock had had one had come as a shock—if anyone was going to be immortal, it would have been Sherlock Holmes, so the fact that he’d planned ahead was surprising enough. But… to have left his things to him? His flatmate, a man he’d barely known a year and a half?

John had backed into his chair by now, unable to cope with this new information and to control his legs at the same time. Whatever explanation Mycroft was giving went right over his head. He wasn’t listening. He just stared at Sherlock’s (empty) chair and tried to come to grips with the fact that his friend had done this. Not only had he died for him, but he had left him _everything_.

It wasn’t until Mycroft’s voice trailed off that John realized his cheeks were wet. He wiped them hastily, and tried to answer Mycroft’s original question. “I would never sell his violin, but I wanted … I needed to see it, to make sure it was stored properly. Sherlock would rise from the dead if he thought I was mistreating his Strad. I went to a luthier to … ask some advice, and Peter was so eager to see the violin, I invited him back to see it. But, God, Mycroft … of course I’m not selling it.”

Quite the contrary, he thought. I plan on making it a baby brother so that there will be two violins that Sherlock isn’t here to play. He scrubbed at his face again. Really, what was he thinking?

He looked up and saw Mycroft studying him, his face thoughtful. “What aren’t you telling me? I knew you had moved back, but judging by the dust and the tension in your shoulders, you have not been in this room before today.”

“No, I haven’t been,” John said with a sigh. “I said, I’m camping down at 221C for the time being. I couldn’t quite face … all this … before now. Still can’t, to be honest. I’m surprised to see you here.”

If Mycroft caught the hint that maybe he wasn’t welcome after Sherlock’s death, he ignored it, focused on the purpose of his visit. “And the luthier? Why did you go see him, if not to sell Sherlock’s violin?”

“I told you. I needed advice.” John met his gaze calmly, wishing his eyes weren’t still burning.

“Advice for what? Not the care and feeding of violins. It was something else.” Mycroft’s tone was confident and so like Sherlock’s when he was deducing that it made John ache.

He lifted his chin and replied, “Just a project I’m working on, Mycroft. Nothing that concerns you.”

“You’re sleeping in your workshop and you just went to a violin-maker to ask advice,” he said, musing as he seemed to stare into John’s soul for a long moment before giving a brief nod. “Ah. So next the question arises, why do you think my brother would want you to make him a violin?”

John just shook his head. The way the Holmes brothers snatched things out of the air still awed and amazed him. “He probably doesn’t, especially considering he’s dead, but what else can I do? The man killed himself to save my life, Mycroft, and I only just found out. I’m furious with him, for going without me, and now you tell me he left me his things, too … And don’t think I’m not angry about that, too, why it took you so long.” 

He held up his hand to stave off any explanations the other man might feel required to make. “All I want to do is find a way to get some peace. I can’t … My days are … I need something to do, and I need to find some way to reconcile what Sherlock did _for_ me with what he did _to_ me—because make no mistake, sniper or not, his jumping almost killed me.”

Mycroft had been silent, letting him ramble. “And you think making a violin will help?”

John shrugged. “It can’t hurt. He _loved_ that violin, and he played it—God help me—at all hours. It helped him think, helped him organize his thoughts, his feelings. It was a part of him, and one of the only things I can think of that he felt passionate about. I want … I need…”

“To honor that through the medium of your own craftsmanship,” Mycroft finished for him, eyes thoughtful.

“Yes,” John said on a long breath. “I know it sounds absurd. It’s not like he’s here to play it, and God knows anything I make won’t compare to a Stradivarius, so he probably wouldn’t want to play it anyway, but … it just feels right. Or as close to right as anything I can think of, and I need to do _something_.”

Mycroft watched him, hands balanced on his umbrella as he rocked back and forth on his feet. John found he was actually anxious for his verdict. Would this be something Sherlock would have appreciated? Or would he have scoffed at the waste of time?

After a long moment, though, Mycroft gave a nod. “I think my brother would applaud your finding an appropriate direction for your talents, John. Nor should you underestimate your skills. Did you know I have one of your pieces in my office?”

John blinked. The shocks just kept on coming. “Really? When did you…?”

“I had thought to order a custom piece,” Mycroft told him with a tight smile, “But thought my brother might object. No, I had one of my assistants conduct the transaction for me. My point, though, is that you are obviously skilled. Of course, making a violin utilizes some specialized knowledge, but I have no doubt that making a credible instrument is within your scope. Indeed, I find I quite look forward to seeing--and hearing--the end result.”

“Now I’m not sure what to say. On the one hand, I appreciate your vote of confidence, but on the other, that would immediately have made Sherlock hate the idea,” John said with the smallest of laughs. 

Mycroft met it with a chuckle of his own. “Yes, he could be so obstinate. I find it’s one of the things I miss most.”

John gave a nod. “For some reason, I find myself thinking back on the rude behavior with a lot more fondness now. Though I really don’t miss finding body parts in the fridge.”

“No, I’d imagine not.” Mycroft stood for another moment and then nodded. “Very well. I hope you’ll keep me informed on your progress, John.”

“Right,” John said. “It’ll be a while. Apparently there’s quite a learning curve.”

“I have every faith in you, John.”

John looked at him in surprise. “Do you? Do you really? You’ve had an odd way of showing it.”

“Perhaps because you continually surprise me. Most people are so predictable, one quickly learns what to expect and can practically plot a graph of what behaviors will occur in any given situation. You, on the other hand, persist in doing the unexpected. I may sometimes appear not to have trusted you, but it was because my data was flawed. I have come to understand that you are a truly remarkable man, John Watson. I’ve learned not to underestimate you, though I fear it may be too late.”

John was sure the room was reeling. (Really, the shocks just kept on coming.) “Too late?”

“For us to have any relationship of our own.”

“You would … why would you want that? We’ve never been friendly, Mycroft, even before…”

The man just blinked and glanced down at his umbrella. “No, but it would not have been possible before. Sherlock was surprisingly jealous at times and would never have accepted it.”

“You mean before you betrayed him.” John’s voice was even.

“Do you believe that?”

John blinked at the hesitant way Mycroft asked. “I wouldn’t have,” he finally said, “If you hadn’t confirmed it. I would have believed the empire would fall before you would do anything to hurt your brother. You said it when we first met—you worry. And you are the most over-protective brother I’ve ever seen.”

Mycroft glanced up through his lashes. “And you believe I confirmed a betrayal?”

“Didn’t you?” John tried to force himself to remember what had been said that night, but the revelations at the Diogenes Club had been drowned by the reality of Sherlock’s jump. “You said you traded information with Moriarty.”

“I did,” Mycroft agreed. “However, you might want to ask yourself _why_ I would do such a thing with a confirmed madman with a vendetta against my brother—and you. And whether it’s not possible that Sherlock and I were trying to turn his game on him.”

“You and … but Sherlock is dead.” John could taste the disbelief in his voice, heavy on his tongue. Surely if both Mycroft and Sherlock—the most brilliant men he’d ever known—had teamed up against Moriarty, they would have won?

“Despite my best efforts, yes,” Mycroft said, and John could see the pain in his eyes. “Not every game is winnable, though I believe he would count your continued survival a qualified success.”

John just shook his head. “Not by any standard I can think of. I would have done anything, _anything_ to keep him safe.”

“Do you truly think his life was worth more than yours?” Mycroft asked, forehead wrinkled ever so slightly as if he knew the answer but wanted to know if John did. 

“You know I do, Mycroft,” John said. “And so do you. So what does it say about us, that we’re still here, walking around, and he’s gone?”

“I don’t know, John. I doubt he would have grieved much for me, but the fact that he put you, Mrs. Hudson, and Detective Inspector Lestrade ahead of himself, his own life?” Mycroft paused, face momentarily distant. “I find it’s not a matter of value or worth. I just … have never been so proud of my brother.”

John could only nod, wordless as he was swamped again with the loss of the best man he had ever known.

#

 

After that surprisingly cathartic conversation, John pushed ahead with his new project. He threw himself into it with a single-minded zeal worthy of Sherlock himself, researching everything he could get his hands on. Peter (who was becoming a fast friend) was more than happy to lend and recommend books and videos by the stack. 

As much as John had always appreciated their beauty, he had never really given any thought to how violins were constructed, and found himself fascinated by the complexity, the challenge. A dozen times a day, he found tidbits that he wanted to share with Sherlock. He wondered how much Sherlock had known about how his beloved violin had produced such exquisite sound. (The fact that it was actually intact and un-experimented-on only proved his devotion to the instrument, though John wouldn’t have been surprised if Sherlock had torn apart a generic, factory-made version or three to explore the construction.) 

Still, in learning about the inner workings of violins himself, John found himself feeling closer to Sherlock than he had in months. They had never discussed music (outside John’s pleas to stop torturing the violin in the middle of the night), but John was learning a new appreciation. He started playing CDs of classical violin as he read, and found himself trying to listen to the sounds of the actual instruments instead of just the notes.

He also started taking violin lessons himself. He would never be a virtuoso—his fingers were too thick, too callused to ever be really good—but he wanted to be able to play this thing when he was done with it. Besides, knowing now how important it was for a violin to be played, he felt like the Stradivarius deserved to get out of its case from time to time, even if part of him felt guilty about subjecting it to his abysmal skills.

Still, most of his time was spent learning about woods and glues and finishes and techniques. There were even videos, and it wasn’t too long before he decided he was ready to start. After all, he told himself, he could study the art for a lifetime, but that wasn’t the point of this exercise. Sherlock would be impatient for his new violin, after all.

Then he sighed. If only he could believe that was true.

#


	4. Chapter 4

**Ten Months Later**

“John? Are you down there?”

John just sighed, eyes not moving from the piece of maple he was coaxing into a curve. “Yes,” he called back, hating the distraction. He’d been helping Peter out at his shop that afternoon. Peter had decided that John had enough experience now to be useful and said he would learn more from handling real instruments than from constructing his own. John wasn’t sure about that, but he found he enjoyed the company. Anyway, with all the help Peter was giving him, he couldn’t begrudge him a little free labor. He had looked forward to a chance to work on his own for a while, though, and so he didn’t look up as the footsteps sounded on the stairs. 

“I’m sorry to bother you … whoa.” 

Tightening the clamp, John exhaled and finally looked up to see Greg and Sally standing at the doorway. “How’re you doing?” he asked.

“We’re … wow, John, this is impressive. Last time I was down here, it was full of furniture.”

John looked fondly around the workshop. The table was filled with notes and sketches of violins. He had one set of ribs clamped to a mold and was in the process of making another set. The chair was holding a pile of reference books to go back to Peter, and he had Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major blasting from his stereo speakers. 

Sally stepped forward, face alight with interest. “I know you had said you were going to, but this is amazing.”

John nodded, stepping away from the workbench and stretching his back a bit. “It looks chaotic, I know.”

“No,” she breathed, “It’s perfect. Though I miss the spindles.”

He snorted. “You only have yourself to blame. This was your idea in the first place, remember?”

“All I did was tell you to find something he would have liked. I never said you should have a complete personality makeover,” she told him as she glanced at Greg, who was still staring around the room.

“Never going to happen,” John said amiably. It had been weeks since he had seen either of them, and neither had been to Baker Street since the night a year ago when everything had changed. They met for pints every month or so and tried to keep the conversation from touching on Sherlock, but none of them were comfortable about being together in 221B. John himself had only just moved back upstairs a couple months ago, finally wearying of sawdust sifting into his bedding. He had finally moved most of Sherlock’s things into his bedroom to get them out of sight, to make it bearable, but he still spent most of his waking hours at 221 down here in the workshop.

Sally was still teasing. “Right, because the John Watson I used to know always listened to … what … Mozart?”

“Beethoven,” he corrected, “And I did get used to having classical music around—especially violin. The interesting thing is that I listen completely differently these days, my ear always seems tuned to the sound of the instruments rather than the music they’re actually playing. I sometimes wonder if this would make Sherlock’s … improvisations … easier or harder to deal with, if I had to listen to them now.”

“He was quite good,” Greg said, looking uncomfortable. “When he chose to be.”

“That was the tricky part,” John agreed. “Especially at four in the morning.” He glanced at his workbench, calculating how long he had before the wood would need to be re-heated. “Can I get you two some tea?”

Greg looked at Sally, shifting his weight, then said, “We don’t want to interrupt. Can you keep working while we talk?”

John flashed a grateful smile. “I really would like to get these ribs clamped before I leave.”

Sally looked at them curiously. “Those are the sides?”

“Ribs,” he said, nodding. “You bend them first so they’ll curve properly, and then they get shaped to the mold—like that one over there. Then the front and back are carved out, the bass bar and the f-holes added, and then you take the mold out and it all gets glued together.”

“You sound like an expert,” Sally told him. “And you only just learned this since…?”

“Since the night you stopped by my bedsit, yes,” John said, focusing again on the wood under his hands. “But believe me, I’ve still got a lot to learn.”

“You couldn’t stop at one?” Greg asked with a grin with another look around at the various pieces of violin around the workshop. 

“I think if I had stopped with that first one, Sherlock would have started haunting me—probably by torturing me by making me hear it played. This was supposed to honor his memory, after all, and that was an appalling instrument. But it’s like my Mum used to say about biscuits—the first batch is supposed to be ruined so you learn enough not to mess up the next one.”

“So you’re making violins like biscuits? How many batches have you made?” 

“Four,” John said, “And I’m proud to say each was better than the last. Peter even sold the last one in his shop. Granted, it was to a student who wasn’t overly picky about the sound, but that’s still an achievement.”

“The sound?”

“It’s interesting, really,” John said. “Every violin has its own personality—and so far, each of mine has been crabby. You’d think they’d all be pretty much the same, but they’re not. I can’t even name all the factors that affect the voice—the wood, the carving, the shape—even the varnish. I understand now why this is such a highly specialized field—and why Zygmuntowicz’s violins go for £50,000. The basics aren’t really that hard, but getting everything _right_? It’s a challenge.”

“You’ve got a new career … again,” Sally told him with a gentle smile.

“I wouldn’t go that far. It’s really just an extension of an existing hobby, and it’s not like it’s paying the bills, but … yeah, something like that.” John looked down at this workbench and ran his hand through his hair. “You know what, this can wait. Do you …want to come upstairs? I really could go for some tea.”

The two Yarders exchanged glances and then nodded. “Yeah, we’d like that, John. Thank you,” said Greg and with a nod, John turned and led the way upstairs.

After they were all settled and all carefully _not_ talking about the changes or the last time they’d been in 221B together, Greg finally mentioned why they had come.

“We’ve got a case and it’s got some familiar features to one you and Sherlock worked on and … I wondered if you could take a look?”

“Me?” He was honestly surprised. “I thought Scotland Yard officially frowned on consultants of any kind these days—especially those named John Watson.”

Greg shrugged a little. “Yes and no. For the regular cases, yeah, but for ones where you may have specific knowledge that would help? Then you’re just like any other consultant.”

“So if you get a serial killer who uses violins …?”

“You’re our man, absolutely.”

John sighed, but at the same time, felt a tiny warm spot of interest in his gut. The last year had been quiet for him. Once Sherlock’s name had been cleared and he had started working on his Great Violin Project, things had gotten better. He hadn’t even missed the adrenalin rush. That addiction seemed to have been burned away by grief, and while his current life wasn’t exciting or unpredictable, it was so much better than anything he could have pictured twelve months ago. It was like one, long, lazy Sunday afternoon, and if that wasn’t exciting, well … he’d had enough of that for one lifetime, hadn’t he?

Yet, with Greg’s words, he felt an old, familiar stirring of interest and adrenalin. 

“What case?”

 

#

 

Against all odds, John had managed to start his life for a fourth time. There had been the life he’d been born into, with his cabinet-making Dad—the one where John could have been a quiet, content craftsman, never missing the rush of adrenalin. When that had been taken away by his Dad’s cancer, he had become a doctor and headed off to the army to do as much good as he could … a life that had been torn away by the bullet through his shoulder. 

Then the dark, dreary imitation of a life that was all he’d had left after that had been filled by the Technicolor kaleidoscope of life with Sherlock Holmes—whirling, vibrant colors that suited John to the very bottom of his starved soul. 

Because, honestly, he had never realized how empty he had been before that all-consuming friendship with Sherlock Holmes had filled in all the dry, dark, lonely bits with warmth and color. Falling head-over-heels in love would not have been any more life-changing than the friendship started by walking into Barts’ lab and lending his phone. 

It had just been his own mistake to build that third variation in the Life of John Watson (in D Major) solely, totally around Sherlock Holmes, because the loss of him had almost destroyed what was left of him. When Sherlock walked off that building right in front of him, John had spent the last eighteen months working, breathing, and living Sherlock Holmes. He had stopped working at the surgery long before, rarely had time to meet up with any of his army mates, and God knew he hadn’t had a successful date in months. He had stupidly, happily let Sherlock Holmes take over every aspect of his life. 

Which meant his absence left a void that John hadn’t imagined he would ever fill.

So this new … he couldn’t call it an adventure, since nothing about this desperate, clawing journey from the depths of loss of purpose, loss of meaning, loss of Sherlock could be called adventurous. It was a survival story, perhaps, but there was a difference between breathing, walking and talking, and truly surviving. Or thriving. But, whatever you called it, this new … mission … had surprised him. What had begun as an attempt to make some kind of memorial for his dead friend had—through its sheer complexity—become a basis for something like a life. It might be tinted with pale, pastel hues instead of saturated, vibrant color, but at least it wasn’t dark and gray anymore—not entirely. Nor entirely alone.

Not that he dated these days. Not only were his hours filled, but he just couldn’t find the emotional energy to do so. He went out for pints with Greg and Sally every month or so, where they would occasionally ask his advice on cases (though he wondered if they did that out of pity). He sometimes met with his old army mates, as well, and there were occasional lunches with Harry—so there were ties to his old life (well, lives). 

Meanwhile, he spent most of his time working on violins and other stringed instruments at Peter’s shop. He spent time with other luthiers, too, discussing everything from sources for wood to esoteric varnish recipes. 

He wished (not for the first time) that Sherlock could have been there for this. His scientifically-minded flatmate would have happily tested every possible wood, finish, source, cut for … well, everything he could have thought of. There would be spreadsheets about best woods for the pegs, which source provided the best pieces for the body, what to use for the purfling at the edge. It could have been a project they could have worked on together. The possibilities would have been delightfully, infuriatingly, endless.

Because John never forgot why he had started this project in the first place. As much as he was enjoying the new friends, the new skills … as much as this had opened his world in a direction he’d never expected … it still ultimately paled next to a world with Sherlock still in it. He missed the arguments they might have had between the scientific aspects of building a violin and the artistic side of it. He missed the live-in expert he would have had when questions arose. He occasionally ached at the thought that Sherlock would never play one of his violins—because he had finally accepted that this was not going to be a one-time project. He was hooked, wrapped in sentiment and violin strings to the one thing that had given him back some purpose, helped create John Watson 4.0.

His own skill at playing the violin was never going to be above average at best. Between the Afghani bullet that had stolen some of his fine motor skills and the fact that he simply did not have long, elegant fingers like a former flatmate he could mention, he would never be able to play as well as he’d like. He found he enjoyed it, though. Mrs. Hudson often came to join him as he played (once he’d gotten past the tortured-cat stage). 

He went to concerts with Peter and some of the other luthiers he had grown friendly with this last year, as well. He might never love classical music like Sherlock had, but it had somehow worked its way under his skin, much like the glaze on a new violin sank into it, transforming a dead piece of wood into a living receptacle for Music. It didn’t, it couldn’t, have the rush that chasing criminals had had, but it was more satisfying than he could have hoped back when … well … the day he lost his best friend.

Against all odds, he had built a new life for himself, and if it wasn’t vibrant and exciting, that was all right. He had had his glory days, and he was being constructive and trying to make something beautiful. There was a lot to be said for that … wasn’t there?

#


	5. Chapter 5

**Eight Months Later**

To John’s surprise, Mycroft had continued to show interest in his new project. With Sherlock gone, John had fully expected he would fade out of Mycroft’s sphere of interest, but apparently the man had meant what he said—he wanted some kind of relationship with his brother’s best friend. 

John would occasionally find a black car waiting for him when he left Peter’s and would sigh and get in. At least Mycroft wasn’t dragging him to empty warehouses these days. More often than not, it was a restaurant where they would have a slightly-uncomfortable meal. (John couldn’t decide whether Mycroft was just terrible at non-coercive small talk or if he was worried John wasn’t eating enough.) Once, the car even brought him to a violin recital at St. Martins in the Field. 

More often, though, Mycroft would visit at Baker Street—usually at 221B, but his curiosity had driven him down to 221C a few times. He would look at the progress of the various violins around the room and smile slightly to himself. John couldn’t imagine why it would matter to Mycroft, but appreciated the faint approval nevertheless, which is why he felt it was right that Mycroft was there the night John finished Sherlock’s violin.

It was almost two years, now, since Sherlock had died, over eighteen months since he’d started this project. John’s work had steadily improved and he had high hopes for this, his seventh violin. 

It was one of his most beautiful, he thought, with the fine grain adding a depth to the color from the varnish—his first try with that particular recipe. He’d stumbled across it on an internet search and—unlike many things you find on the internet—it had immediately piqued his interest. He had read somewhere that Zygmuntowicz said about varnishing that "that's when it crosses the border from a dead to a living thing,” and John had been astounded to find it was true. He’d known from his other woodwork that of course there was a difference in finishing products, but nothing like the importance it made to an instrument. More than any other piece of wood, musical instruments were alive in a way he couldn’t understand, but was learning to respect.

It was just all the more reason for him to fuss over Sherlock’s violin … and he had high hopes that this particular instrument would be it. The deep color (the darkest spruce he could find) mimicked the depths his friend hid so well. He had made the fingerboard out of ebony and all the accents were deep charcoal, like his coat, with red accents on the tuning pegs. There had been something about this violin that had spoken to him as he was shaping it, almost as if Sherlock had been leaning over his shoulder, watching every movement. 

If it had the sound John hoped, this was the violin he had started out to make.

He worried at it, polishing it with a cloth, trying to figure out why he was stalling. He already knew that he was going to continue making violins, but his first goal had been to honor Sherlock and he felt in his bones that this instrument—unlike the six that came before—would be _his_. 

Unless he’d made a mistake. Unless he’d ruined it. Unless its voice was as broken as the man’s had been.

Mentally shaking himself, John put the cloth down and reached for the strings, adding them with familiar movements and quickly tuning the instrument (something he almost thought took him longer to learn than making the instruments in the first place). 

Taking a deep breath, he picked up his bow and touched it to the strings, drawing it across in a long, slow sweep as his ears strained to hear the sound, the voice of the instrument.

And it was sweet. Well-rounded and pure, but with a depth that bespoke a soul—something his other violins had been missing. It was impossible to define it, he thought. An instrument’s soul (for want of a better word) was ephemeral, mysterious, but a good instrument—and by now he had played on a number of violins both terrible and sublime—had one. Deep, like Sherlock’s voice had been. Strong, like his personality, and with … something he couldn’t put his finger on, something indefinable that made it work. Its action wasn’t quite as smooth as he’d like, but that suited a violin meant for Sherlock—the man had so loved a challenge.

It was perfect. Or at least, as perfect as John could make it.

His friend would never play it, he knew. Sherlock would never have the chance to scoff at it or pretend to love it. (Or truly love it?) He would never say thank you (something John had a hard time picturing even if the man hadn’t been dead). But … this was Sherlock’s. This was the violin he had longed to make for his friend.

Haltingly at first, thinking back that terrible Christmas party, his fingers moved into “Auld Lang Syne.” He played slowly, not because of his lack of skill, but because this, this first song, was a lament for his friend, a man he wanted never to forget. Could never forget.

There were tears in his eyes as he finished, overwhelmed. The violin was by far the best he had made and he thought Sherlock would have been proud. Or, at least, not driven to break it apart for firewood. Though to be fair, Sherlock had been remarkably supportive of John’s woodworking hobby and he liked to think he would have encouraged this, too. 

That was, of course, the whole point.

He put the violin down carefully and covered his face in his hands. He’d bring this to Peter tomorrow for a second opinion, but … yes. Just, yes. This was Sherlock’s violin. It just _was_.

He had done it, and the relief was almost unbearable. It didn’t matter that his work would improve, that his instruments would get better—this, right here in front of him, was the whole point.

It wasn’t until he had collected himself and lifted his head that he realized he had an audience. Mycroft stood in the doorway with Mrs. Hudson, hand on his sleeve, right behind him.

He had no idea how long they had been there, and for a moment felt embarrassed, but then realized how absurd that was. It was altogether appropriate that the other two people on the planet who truly missed Sherlock were here for this moment. They both knew how much this meant to John, and he thought they knew how much it would have meant to Sherlock as well. 

And so, his eyes bright, he didn’t say a word. He just picked up his bow and started to play Aaron Copland’s “Simple Gifts,” its lilting melody a reminder that life goes on, to be grateful for the blessings you have.

When he was done, Mrs. Hudson was frankly crying and even Mycroft’s eyes looked suspiciously bright. Now John really was embarrassed. “My playing’s not that bad, is it?” he asked, trying to divert the mood.

Mrs. Hudson just shook her head and nudged her way past Mycroft to come over to John. Carefully taking the violin from his hands and placing it on the table, she leaned forward and gave him a hug. “That was beautiful, John. Absolutely perfect. Is it…?”

He nodded. “It’s probably not good enough, but yeah … this is Sherlock’s.”

She reached out a gentle hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, John Watson. It’s beautiful. He would have loved it.”

John shrugged, uncomfortable at the attention, the emotion. Shouldn’t someone be making tea, or something? “Maybe not as much as his Strad, but I hope he would have liked it.”

Mycroft had come over and, with a glance for permission (!), lifted the violin to his own chin with long-practiced ease, then lifted the bow which he laid on the strings. Like John had, he took a deep breath before beginning to play something John almost recognized. Mozart’s Requiem, maybe? (He’d grown an appreciation for classical music, but its naming system still defeated him since almost every title sounded the same.) Whatever it was, it was mournful and sad, but with a hint of hope.

John tried to listen to the violin, not the notes, but he couldn’t. He had never realized Mycroft could play—he was certainly much better than John—and to have him playing now, on Sherlock’s violin … well, he really needed tea.

He held his breath as Mycroft lowered the instrument. How bad was it? Just because it was the best John had made didn’t mean it was _good_. What if he thought it was rubbish? That Sherlock would have hated it? 

The look on Mycroft’s face reassured him, though. “John. I am … impressed.”

John tried not to look too hopeful. “You’re not just saying that?” he asked, even as he mentally chastised himself. Mycroft was a master at polite lies, and it’s not like he would admit it if he was lying. 

“No, John, I am not. I would never have guessed that you’d only made … six? … violins before this one. Its sound is quite remarkable.”

Mrs. Hudson had reached out at some point to clutch his hand, and now squeezed tight. “Sherlock would have been so proud of you, John.”

John just blinked, suddenly feeling lost. He knew it was silly, but when did emotions ever obey rational thought? “Seriously, you’re not just saying that?” he asked, hating himself for needing the reassurance.

“I think it’s safe to say that Sherlock would have been overwhelmed,” Mycroft told him, his face unusually gentle. John was reminded of their first meeting, when Mycroft had welcomed him back to the battlefield, to the war, with such understanding. His voice was calm and gentle now as it was then. “To my knowledge, no-one ever made him such an exquisite gift—and it is, indeed, exquisite.”

Mycroft looked down at the violin in his hands for a long moment and then looked up at John, a world of understanding in his eyes. “You had wished to honor his memory by making this violin, but I must say, to me, it is a tribute to both of you. It is your tenacity and friendship that made this possible, John. I really can’t thank you enough.”

“Thank … me?” John asked, faltering.

“Yes. I had feared for years that Sherlock would waste his talents, his gifts. His personality was a difficult one, as you know, and I had thought he would live his life without anyone ever realizing what a remarkable—if flawed—man he was. But this … gift … that you’ve made? You and he both have exceeded my highest hopes.”

Mrs. Hudson was crying again and John felt he wasn’t far behind. Trying manfully not to sniffle, he stood up and went over to the flat’s tiny kitchen to pull out a bottle of scotch leftover from Christmas. He poured three glasses and handed them around. “To Sherlock,” he said.

“And to his best friend,” added Mycroft, “And his new violin.”

And, faces flushed with an array of emotions, they all drank their toast to their absent friend.

 

#

(Note: Yes, I know … sentiment! What can I tell you? It was an emotional moment and I may have gotten slightly carried away.)


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, a courier dropped off a beautiful, handmade violin case for Sherlock’s violin, complete with a name plate with both their names and the date. John was touched at the gesture and smiled to himself as he got ready to head over to Peter’s.

He felt nervous about this, like he had back at Uni, going in for an exam. He knew this violin had turned out well—even Mycroft had said so—but he still needed the validation from a (relatively) unbiased expert.

“John,” said Peter after he’d lowered his bow. “This is wonderful. I am … what’s the phrase? Blown away?”

John smiled at his friend. “If you’re trying to make me blush, then yes, but I was really hoping for your honest opinion, Peter.”

“Oh, but it is,” he protested as the bell from the front of the shop jingled. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he called and then lifted the bow again, playing a quick flurry of melody followed by a long, slow chromatic scale, each note sounding perfectly round to John’s ears. “The tone is excellent. This one has personality, John, a soul the others were missing. Ultimately, isn’t that all that matters? Play me something, while I help this customer.”

He handed the instrument back to John and started toward the door. “It depends on the personality, I suppose,” John said as he lifted the violin and played “Auld Lang Syne” once more. 

When he was finished, he glanced at the clock and immediately felt guilty, keeping Peter from his work, and so fitted the violin into its perfectly-fitted case. (How had Mycroft done that so quickly?) 

He heard a quick laugh and then a murmur of voices as Peter spoke to his customer. Shrugging into his coat, he went through the doorway to the front of the shop, accidentally bumping into the older man at the counter and knocking over his pile of sheet music. “Oh, I am so sorry!”

The man shrugged off the apology but let him scoop up the papers, glancing down at John’s violin case with a tiny sneer. John supposed he did look a bit like a middle-aged student with his brand-new case, but there was no reason to … he sighed. He wasn’t going to let anything ruin this day. With a nod to Peter, he headed back to Baker Street.

He dashed into the workshop just long enough to leave the violin on the workbench. He had things to do, but for now, the sunshine was calling. Today, for the first time in months, he felt _free_.

He hadn’t realized the burden making the violin … _that_ violin … had been. He had thought he’d accepted his new Sherlock-less life, but today? With Sherlock’s violin done? It felt like a new beginning. Or maybe an ending. Or both.

Either way, a walk in the sunshine seemed appropriate. He would clear his head and come to grips with the fact that his original goal had been met … he could do anything he liked now. He thought about the mellow sound of the cello and wondered if it would be hard to learn to play one of those, thought about the challenge of making one. He had the skills now and it wasn’t really that different than a violin. He could experiment with electric violins—something about which his new friends had very strong opinions, but whose shapes were so reminiscent of the furniture he used to make. 

He walked for hours, never noticing that his cranky leg wasn’t limping at all. 

It wasn’t until he turned onto Baker Street later, carrying some Chinese for his dinner that he realized something was wrong. The street was thronged with vehicles with flashing lights and his first thought was that something had happened to Mrs. Hudson.

Pushing his way through, he found Greg near the doorway, “Greg! What happened? Is Mrs. Hudson all right?”

“Thank God,” the other man said, relief flooding his face. “She’s fine, John. But where’ve you been? I’ve been calling!”

It was only then that John realized he’d left his phone on the bench next to the violin. “I was out for a walk,” he said blankly, looking around. “What happened?”

Greg pointed up at the window of 221B. “A bullet crashed through the window a couple hours ago. Nobody was hurt, thank God, but when we couldn’t find you…”

“Jesus,” John breathed. “Where was Mrs. Hudson? Is she here?”

“She was out of the building at the time and never in any danger. We haven’t found the shooter, but our men are looking now.”

“This is a big turnout for one stray bullet,” John said, looking around at the milling officers. 

“221B is still on the watch-list, for some reason,” Greg said, growing serious. “It’s not like you’re solving crimes these days, and most of the crazies who believed Sherlock was a fraud have given up … but it’s in the system. Anything dangerous happens near 221, we go into full alert. Sometimes it’s just not worth asking questions.”

John shrugged, thinking of Mycroft’s over-protective tendencies as Greg cleared his throat and said, “I don’t know how to tell you, John. There was one casualty … Sherlock’s Stradivarius. The bullet must have ricocheted, and … I’m so sorry, John. I know what that meant to you—to both of you.”

John felt his face freeze at the thought of that gorgeous instrument, with all its history, all the memories, demolished by a bullet, of all things. One more piece of Sherlock, gone. “It was insured,” he murmured, stunned. “Though I can’t say I remember gunfire being specifically mentioned in the policy.”

He nodded to Sally as she came over, expressing her sympathies. How much had it been worth, she wanted to know, and John couldn’t say. “They’re priceless, really. Millions, probably. I can’t …”

“Do you need to sit down, John?” Greg asked, voice concerned.

“No,” John said. He supposed he looked shocked (and he didn’t even have a blanket), but really, he was angry. Incredibly angry. What kind of person would murder a priceless violin? It was just lucky that the shooter was probably blocks and miles away by now… he turned around quickly, glaring at the windows across the street.

Except he turned too quickly and his left foot skidded on a piece of debris on the pavement, causing him to lose his balance for a moment.

As he caught himself, cursing his recalcitrant leg for being so fickle, another bullet slammed into the building right next to his head.

Chaos erupted as John’s army instincts kicked in. He grabbed Sally and forced her to the ground, shouting “Down!” in his best Captain’s voice as Greg braced himself in front of him. “Don’t be stupid, John,” he said as John protested. “I’ve got my vest on and you don’t.” He looked back over his shoulder and then said, “Right. Inside 221, _now_.” 

Within minutes, they had scrambled through the door, with another bullet hitting the wood as it closed. “What the bloody hell … ?”

“John? John, are you okay?” Mrs. Hudson was hurrying out of her flat, only stopping when the others waved her back. 

“The sniper’s still out there, Mrs. Hudson,” John explained, breathless. “It’s not safe.” The four of them moved back to her flat, further away from the front of the building. It bothered him to be in here, being protected, rather than out there, hunting down the madman with the gun. Greg had a point, though—he didn’t have protective gear and his (still not exactly legal) gun was upstairs and it wasn’t like he could pull it out in front of the Met. Not unless it was really an emergency, anyway. 

So he recruited himself to wait. “I wonder if Mycroft knows about Sherlock’s Strad,” he wondered aloud. 

“Oh, John, isn’t that dreadful?” Mrs. Hudson’s face was distraught. “It doesn’t seem right, does it? Though at least…”

He met her eyes, surprised at how calm she was. In fact, her eyes were alight with something akin to mischief. “I suppose the timing could be worse,” he said, his own lips twitching. “The violin is dead, long live the violin.”

“Long may she reign,” she said with a chuckle of her own, and then, despite the seriousness of the situation, they were both giggling while Sally and Greg stared at them in disbelief.

“Sorry.” John tried to pull his face back to something appropriate. “Sorry, it’s just … when we’re done with this, you need to come downstairs. There’s something I want to show you.”

Greg’s eyebrows lifted. “You mean…?”

John couldn’t stop the smile spreading across his face. “Yeah. It’s not the same, but let’s just say Sherlock still has a violin, even if his last one did get murdered—which, really, is just what you’d expect to happen to anything belonging to Sherlock Holmes.”

They got the all-clear then, and Sally and Greg went back to do their jobs, leaving firm instructions for John to stay inside. He protested but seeing Mrs. Hudson’s concern, let them convince him. He shared his Chinese and drank too many cups of tea before they finally came back to knock on her door. “Everybody all right in here?”

John looked up with a smile. “We’re fine. You two? You look knackered.”

Mrs. Hudson (being who she was) insisted on giving them tea to drink, and so it was a little longer before they could all head downstairs to see Sherlock’s (new) violin. John wasn’t altogether surprised to find Mycroft just coming through the front door. Two days in a row were unprecedented, but he supposed Mycroft was concerned about the Strad, too. If John remembered correctly, he was the one who had given it to Sherlock in the first place.

He tried to apologize, but Mycroft waved him off. How could he possibly have known a bullet would come through his window? He was just glad John and Mrs. Hudson were safe. John told him he hadn’t even been up to see the damage yet, but he was just about to show the others his violin, would he like to come?

And so he led his little parade down into his workshop and froze.

The case was on the workbench where he had left it, but it was open.

And empty. 

John looked around with frantic eyes, desperate to find it. What could he have done with it? How could he possibly have lost both of Sherlock’s violins in one day?

Then they heard it.

Wafting down the stairs … “Auld Lang Syne.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Intermezzo: Sherlock**

He watched John enter Peter’s shop with concern. Mycroft would have told him (wouldn’t he?) if John was selling his Stradivarius, though it would be supreme irony for John to decide to do so just as Sherlock finally (finally!) was almost ready to come home. But no, John entered the shop with the ease of familiarity, walking in confidently and heading straight for the back room.

Perhaps he was taking violin lessons? It would be the last thing Sherlock would have expected of his gun-carrying, furniture-making blogger, but he supposed it was better that his Strad was being played by someone. The case looked unfamiliar, though. His brow creased at the mystery, though he shouldn’t be surprised. If anyone was going to surprise him, it would be John Watson.

When John hadn’t left within half an hour, his curiosity grew too large and, adjusting his posture, he entered the shop. From the back room, he could hear Peter (?) playing a chromatic scale on … that certainly wasn’t his Stradivarius, the voice was entirely different. Pleasant enough, but definitely not his violin.

The notes cut off as Peter came up to the counter and Sherlock hastily gathered some sheet music from the small rack at by the door. From the back, came “Auld Lang Syne,” played slowly but with feeling, not hesitation, and Sherlock found himself frozen in place. John. It was John playing.

He lost himself for a moment in the sound—John was more accomplished than he would have expected, and seemed to have a good touch on this instrument. This instrument that clearly was not his Stradivarius, but why would John have bought another violin?

He was taken completely off guard when John came through the door. It had been nearly two years since he had seen him and he automatically took stock of the changes. He’d lost weight, but not unhealthily so. His skin was pale, but more from lack of sunlight than illness, and his fingers were covered with small scratches, and traces of glue. Ah. His workshop, then. It was good he was keeping busy. Sherlock wondered if John was selling more spinning wheels or desks these days.

He couldn’t help but glance at the violin case and blinked. It was brand-new and looked custom made. Why would John …? But he didn’t have time for the mystery just now. He sneered at John to deflect attention and hurried to finish his transaction so he could follow his friend up the street.

It looked like he was heading straight for Baker Street, and so Sherlock dropped back, noting the change in his friend’s gait, as if he didn’t trust his bad (psychosomatic) leg on the walk back to the flat. He had to duck aside hurriedly, though, when John was back out the door in ten minutes, empty-handed and practically whistling as he smiled up at the sunny day.

Sherlock had a dozen things he needed to do, urgent things, but he couldn’t resist. Glancing up and down the street, he let himself in with his key, knowing Mrs. Hudson was out. He paused in the hallway, uncertain whether to go up to 221B or down to John’s workshop. Remembering John’s pale, work-worn hands, he nodded and turned for 221C.

The unfamiliar varnish smell struck him first. It was different than what John usually used, not commercially available. He wondered why he had changed … and then he rounded the corner and stopped at the sight.

Violins. John was making _violins_.

But why? He prowled around the workshop, carefully not touching anything as he looked at several instruments at different stages of completion. Did that mean … the violin he had heard at the shop? John had made that?

His eyes stopped on the case John had been carrying earlier and, hesitating only slightly, he flipped the latches and lifted the lid, catching his breath at the sight of the violin inside. He barely breathed as he reached forward to touch the strings. When had John … how had he done this? His fingers trembled as they touched their names, engraved on a plate on the case. 

John had made this—made this for _him_. 

Sherlock had never wanted anything as much in his life as he wanted to play that violin, made by John’s hands.

But this wasn’t the time. First, he had to get Moran, keep John safe. Then he could come back and try this remarkable instrument. He tried to remember what it had sounded like in Peter’s shop, when John had played it. He had thought then the tone was pleasant, but now … his fingers itched. Why hadn’t he paid more attention?

No. Moran first, then he would ask Mycroft what else he hadn’t told him about John these last two years. Hopefully by tonight this would all be resolved. He could only hope that John would let him play this violin later. Carefully, lovingly, he closed the case and resolutely turned away.

Leaving the workshop, he silently ghosted up the stairs to 221B to find it largely unchanged (though his lab equipment had been removed from the kitchen). He stood in the sitting room for a moment, lost in thought … until a bullet shattered the glass.

**End Intermezzo**

#

 

For a moment, hearing the music coming down the stairs, John felt the floor move under his feet. How was … Who was playing that? It sounded like his violin … _Sherlock’s_ violin. Who would do that? Who would dare to do that?

He was staggering toward the stairs, furious and distraught, when Mycroft caught at his arm. “Breathe, John.”

“What?”

“You’re pale, and you’re weaving. You need to take a deep breath before you go up there.”

“Someone stole Sherlock’s violin, Mycroft!”

“Not stolen, John,” Mycroft told him. “It’s still in the building. It’s just being played, not being harmed.”

“What are you talking about, Mycroft? They have no right…”

They were all watching him. John Watson, center stage of a melodrama once again as the strains of music played on from above. John couldn’t understand why Mycroft was keeping him here, instead of letting him charge up the stairs to stop this … sacrilege. Wasn’t it bad enough that Sherlock’s Stradivarius had been lost? That Sherlock himself was gone? But now this travesty, of someone, anyone playing his violin … _his_ violin without permission … The bullet hole in the window was nothing compared to this. 

Mycroft was saying, “I know, John. I’m just saying to keep a cool head. There’s something you need to know.”

John glared at him. “I’m surprised you don’t have a team of men storming up the stairs by now.”

Mycroft just shook his head, that gentle, all-understanding look on his face again. “There’s only one man who needs to head up those stairs right now, and that’s you. But first—I need to tell you about the sniper.”

The words just weren’t making sense. “The sniper?”

“Yes. Colonel Sebastian Moran. My men captured him a short time ago on the roof across the street. What you need to know, though, is why he was shooting.”

John just stared, not understanding why they were having this conversation right now, instead of going to stop whoever was _playing Sherlock’s violin_. He nodded, though, to show he was listening, even as he stared at the door, ready to race up the stairs as soon as Mycroft stopped talking.

“Moran was the right-hand man of James Moriarty,” Mycroft said, and at the name, John’s eyes snapped back to him. “We have spent the last two years taking down Moriarty’s network. Well, when I say ‘we,’ I really mean one very determined man in particular, but the point is that Moran is the last piece of the puzzle. He was determined to kill you, John, before he was captured.”

“Me? Why me?” It wasn’t like Sherlock was alive anymore, John thought. “All I do these days is make violins, I’m not exactly a threat.”

“No, but,” Mycroft took a breath and looked past John at the others, all staring raptly. “You remember, of course, why Sherlock jumped?”

“To save the three of us from snipers,” John said. They all knew this, why was Mycroft bringing it up? Though … a connection started teasing at the back of his brain. “Are you saying that Moran…”

“Was one of the snipers. Your sniper, in fact.”

“But why would he come after me now? Even if your people have been taking down the network, what does that have to do with me?”

“The deal was that, to save your life—all your lives—Sherlock had to die,” Mycroft said. “Perhaps Moran felt that our destroying Moriarty’s life work cancelled that out. Or perhaps,” he tilted his head at the music still coming down the stairs, “Perhaps he felt he had other reasons to feel the terms of the deal had been nullified. I just …need you to stay calm.”

Confused, John looked past him to see the others, who he was relieved to see looked as perplexed as he felt. He didn’t understand, but obviously something important, something _huge_ was happening, and so he took a deep breath and nodded. And started up the stairs.

Mycroft’s lack of worry should have reassured him. The absence of armed men, the complete confidence that John didn’t need a weapon, not even the backup of Scotland Yard’s finest … all these things should have made him confident that there was nothing to fear at the top of the steps. 

And yet … the unreality of this, the utter absurdity of it … terrified him in some way that Afghanistan and bomb vests and having been shot never had. What had Mycroft meant, Moran had other reasons? Why was he so calm about someone else playing Sherlock’s violin? (And did he even know about the Stradivarius?) John felt like the bogeyman was waiting for him, that something terrible and incomprehensible was playing that violin. Something wonderful, maybe, but terrible, like that ice-cold beauty they talk about the Fae having in old stories—the kind of beauty that strikes you dead with awe and wonder.

And still the strains of the song came down the stairs, leading him on, a somehow familiar siren’s call that set off warning bells at the back of his brain.

Finally at the top, he paused for another deep breath before pushing open the door.

At first, he thought it was the customer from Peter’s shop—the one who had sneered at his unscuffed violin case. The clothing was the same, he thought, and there was an unfamiliar pile of music on the floor by the door, but this man was taller, straighter as he swayed with his playing, lit from behind by the setting sun. And then the melody switched.

It was something John had never heard before. Plaintive and wistful, threaded through with regret and love and remorse, and it just about broke his heart. He forgot his anger at the stolen (borrowed?) violin, forgot that just a few hours ago someone had fired the bullet that murdered Sherlock’s precious Stradivarius. He forgot everything.

Because the silhouette playing looked so familiar. The hair was shorter, perhaps, the clothing not as elegant, but this shape … this person playing … the sound of the notes… 

John had to step back against the door jamb for support as he stared, eyes and ears filled with the unbelievable, the impossible. What had Mycroft said about Moran thinking he had a reason to shoot? That the deal that required Sherlock die had been nullified? What about his utter lack of concern that Sherlock’s violin was missing and being played by …?

As he heard footsteps on the stairs behind him, the music shifted again, and now it spoke of hope and love and home and all the things John had somehow needed to hear. It spoke of faith and compassion and patience. It spoke of friendship.

It spoke of him. It spoke _to_ him.

He didn’t know what to think as this hallucination of Sherlock played out its heart in his sitting room. All he could think was that he had never dreamed his violin … Sherlock’s violin … could sound so beautiful.

 

THE END

##

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support for this series, everyone--the response to this story in particular has just blown me away!

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: I blame Jane Mays for putting this in my head. After John’s hobby inadvertently got Sherlock into spinning, she asked for John to make Sherlock a violin. Naturally, I protested—making violins is an exacting task with lots of esoteric knowledge and skills needed just to make them, forget about making one that sounds good. And with Sherlock already owning a Stradivarius? Well … even if the thought crossed John’s mind, he’d toss it away—why have hamburger, no matter how lovingly made, when you can have prime rib? Besides, how could he possibly do any of this without Sherlock knowing? It’s not like poor John ever gets to keep secrets. But then this angle occurred, that it could be John’s way of honoring Sherlock’s memory and … here we go. But really, it’s Jane’s fault.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PodFic] A Wood-Worker's Requiem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713752) by [WinterKoala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterKoala/pseuds/WinterKoala)




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